


Nuka World and Thirteen Stars

by RiverDelta



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Birch Can't Remember Half of the Nuka World Parks, Consensual Mind Control, Despite Owning Them Technically, Dom/sub Play, Exploration of the Enclave, Generally Smut-Focused, Multi, Nobody takes Birch Seriously, Smut, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverDelta/pseuds/RiverDelta
Summary: After the destruction of Raven Rock, Sergeant Birch had no idea what she was going to do in her life. The Enclave was who she was, after all. Where she grew up, what made her, well, her...Screwing raiders and human popsicles in an old theme park was not what she expected.





	1. In Which We Learn Why All of This Is A Thing

Her name was Elizabeth Birch. She used to be part of the Enclave, until that fell apart. She was a sergeant. She had a small squad, a thirteen-star tattoo on her shoulder, a shaved head, and a hell of a superiority complex.

Shit fell apart.

Some vault kid blew up Raven Rock, a few members of her squad, Theta Squad, managed to escape on a vertibird in an incredible show of insubordination, and that was that. Theta Squad wasn’t special. Far from it. They were given T-45d suits, the outdated surplus, and considered expendable. Unlike Sigma, Theta was mostly a joke. Sergeant Birch was just nuts enough to think that maybe the kids raised in the bunkers of Ohio could do something for America.

They couldn’t.

President was killed. Base destroyed. America was fucking finished. So now the armored woman stood in Nuka World. They’d told stories about it. Some kind of massive theme park for pre-War families. Private Jensen wanted to go there, someday. Reconquer it from whatever monstrous forces held it, make the muties rebuild it before executing them, and get to relax for once. Well, really relax. Not just play holotape games or read preserved books. Have fun. 

Jensen never got to. Birch (Bitch, if you were Sergeant Anderson), finally made her way north, to Nuka World. She braved the Gauntlet, cheated her way to becoming the overboss of fucking raiders (She convinced herself she’d exterminate them in time with the new position), and had surveyed her new subjects, after finding a small pile of Chinese prisoner-of-war bomb collars on the counter in her new home, strangely.

Muties called themselves the Disciples, the Pack, and the Operators. The Disciples were insane and clearly completely rotted through with gamma rays, the Pack were honestly just animals, but the Operators?

“I’m told you call yourself Mags Black.” She glared down at Mags, her normally short stature helped by the armor. Thankfully, this parlor of Mags’ was decently nice. Even a bit luxurious. After what Birch had gone through, it was worth it.

“It’s what my parents called me. May I ask what you call yourself?”

“Sergeant Elizabeth S. Birch.”

“Sergeant? Of what army? Are you a Gunner?”

“United States power armored infantry, Theta Squad.”

“There hasn’t been a United States for two centuries.”

“You might call us the Enclave.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you.” Mags shrugged. “Here’s how it works, ‘Overboss’. You make sure that our three little factions have more to gain together than at each other’s throats, and we’ll work with the blood fetishists and the circus freaks. As a woman of privilege, I’m sure you and I can relate.”

“Privilege?” She said, tilting her head. She removed her helmet, revealing to Mags her shaved head, which the latter found to be ironically more raider-ish than was expected.

“I grew up in the upper class of Diamond City. One thing led to another, and I was politely told to leave. Family squabbles.”

“Diamond City? What? Haven’t heard of Diamond fucking City.”

“You’d call it Fenway Park, soldier girl.”

“How goddamn cultured of you. Living in a baseball diamond. I suppose the Red Sox still exist to beat any of the really bad mutants with their bats?”

“Close enough. I give you a month before you end up like us, Elizabeth. Killing for caps and psycho. I’m sure that’s the drug you’ll find first.”

“Don’t talk down to me.” She spoke, the helmet’s speaker making her voice seem gravely and echoed.

“Of course not.” Mags Black leaned back in her chair and sipped from her Nuka-Cola. Minimal radiation exposure and the mass-production of them for the park before the war meant that having a Nuka was more practical than one might think. Behind her, a thin woman with chestnut hair stood, reading an old pre-War novel.

“You’re drinking the cola? Really? We’re in Nuka World, and you’re drinking Nuka Cola. That seems a bit on the nose.”

“I wasn’t aware you expected to find a font of Chardonnay in the pre-War children’s recreation area.” Mags snubbed her nose. “If you’re going to continue to waste my time, I’m sure that you’ll...find the company of Lizzie Wyath more entertaining. She’s more persuasive than I. Besides, you share the same name. That has to count for something. Or you could go bother the Disciples. Once your fusion core runs dry...”

“I’ll leave my suit and beat anyone who tries to mess with me into the dirt using technique and my bare hands.”

“You really are just a raider with an American flag wrapped around that armor of yours, aren’t you? What did they teach you in the ‘Enclave’?”

“What the hell are you getting at?”

“You talk with no tact. You’re really nothing more than a self-righteous ass, and I’m sure that on some level, you know it.”

Birch raised the boxy laser rifle and aimed it at Mags’ head. The latter didn’t seem fazed. “Elizabeth, trying to convince me you’re not a deluded psychopath by holding a laser rifle to my head is completely counterproductive. Get out of my parlor.”

“I’ll kill you. Nobody will care.”

“My Operators will. I’ll die, and they’ll know to wait. When you’re forced out of your ancient shell, they’ll hunt you down. Naturally, we’ll sell your armor to the highest bidder. It’ll be a nice force multiplier, actually. Maybe I’ll keep it. I’ll have to decide later. Find someone else to bother. The Disciples are headquartered in Fizztop Mountain, and the Zoo’s where the Pack does their thing. Kindly talk to someone else who’s willing to listen to your raging insanity.”

Birch silently took Mags’ word and left the parlor, going to the chaotic town that had been set up in the decrepit remnants of the stage set known as Nuka-Town USA. Now, they just called it Nuka-Town. For obvious reasons. The behemoth strode through the cramped streets past the bomb-collared slaves and the little shops, ignoring the snide comments made by Operators who didn’t take this jackbooted bitch seriously, Pack members who demanded that she fight them to prove her worth, and Disciples mocking her use of thick power armor and a laser rifle.

One of the smaller, thinner raiders, covered in soot and cuts, raced to the conspicuous figure, yelling. “Overboss, Overboss! The arena! RedEye’s got someone who made it through the Gauntlet, and she didn’t cheat!” Birch hit the raider in the face with an armored fist and kept walking, eventually entering the brightly-lit arena full of bumper car wrecks, with the bright red and blue lights shining down onto the ground.

Not much of a crowd seemed to have arrived, probably too burnt out after the disappointing match between Colter and Birch, but a few especially bored Disciples hoping for blood and one or two Pack members had shown up. Across from Birch was a shapely woman in a tight-fitting vault suit and some leather armor hastily strapped around it, with an electrified Chinese officer’s sword in hand. Birch tilted her head in confusion. “How did you make it through the Gauntlet? Why are you even here? What vault is that? ”

“Most of the traps were already triggered, I’m here because I need some nostalgia now that I can’t seem to find my child, and it’s Vault 111. You’re, what, some rogue Brotherhood knight? Wait, no, their armor’s usually a lot nicer than what you’re wearing. Probably just a lucky raider, then.” A...thing in a trench coat and hat chuckled at that.

“I’m from the Enclave. Vault 111? That was the cryogenic experiments, right? We had to do projects on the vaults for a class thing when I was being taught. They thought that if we were going to rebuild America we needed to be taught like Americans before conscription. I picked Vault 8, because it was easy, but this girl next to me in class picked Vault 111, and that vault test stuck with me my entire life, since it was so unusual. So...Oh my god. You’re from...You’re from before the war.” Shocked, Birch removed her helmet to show her cherubic face (Though some grime hindered that effect somewhat) and looked down at the vault dweller. “Come with me.”

“I’m from before the war too, sweetheart. It’s not as special as you think it is.” The thing said, mockingly. “Come on, Nora, let’s just put the raiders in the ground and get to the nostalgia another time.”

“I’m not a raider, and I’m the only person here who wants to keep the both of you alive. So follow me.”

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this, Nick?” Nora turned to the thing in the trench coat, who responded in kind. “You’re not the only one. Think we can take her and the rest?”

Nora laughed hollowly. “It’s not much of a crowd.” Nick Valentine shook his head. “Take it from me. There’s always more mooks to deal with. Doesn’t matter if you’re dealing with drug smugglers, gangsters, or theme park raiders. If you think you’ve gotten lucky, it usually means you’re not seeing the big picture. Probably better to get an idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“Are you two done talking?” Birch said, impatiently. She put her helmet on with a hiss and began to walk out of the arena. “Nora. Nick. Follow.” It said something that she chose to use their names for this. Sure, it didn’t say much, but a detective robot from before the war and a cryogenically-preserved human were more, well, human than quite a few other people, by Enclave standards.

Despite what Elizabeth’s libido might tell her.

She heard them follow, confident they wouldn’t try anything due to her armor (People could say what they wanted, it felt secure), and led them to the ruined restaurant atop Fizztop Mountain that was once called the Fizztop Grille. Well, technically it was still called the Fizztop Grille, but Birch regarded that as something of a misnomer, and a weirdly insulting one as well. Like hell she was reigning over her kingdom of not-quite-corpses-yet from the  _ Fizztop Grille. _ She’d find a better name.

She surveyed her new home (it wasn’t an Ohio bunker, but she didn’t have much choice) to return to the pile of Chinese prisoner-of-war bomb collars (She still couldn’t think of them as “slave collars”. It just wasn’t what they were made for, but, well, they’d do). Going to the power armor frame and leaving her suit, she wore an old white tank top and khaki pants underneath, her short stature, shaved head, and tattoo quite visible, the extremely weathered body underneath still in very good shape, due to constant exercise and physical exertion.

Once Nick Valentine and Nora made their way up, she glared at them. “This is a raider stronghold. However bad you think it is here, it’s ten times worse. Hold still. I’ll try and get you out when I can.” The ‘when I can’ bit was pretty clearly hazy, and everyone knew it.

“What if we say no?” Nora asked, slightly shocked at this whole turn of affairs. Honestly, she mostly remembered cheesy voiceovers and screaming children on the Nuka-Galaxy, as far as this park went.

“I let you walk back down there, and you’ll probably be enslaved to someone who doesn’t recognize your unique importance. That, or you might just die. Well, you’ll probably just die, thinking about it. This is a town full of raiders, a third of them are kill-happy, a third of them believe in strength determining morality, and a third will do anything for bottlecaps, of all things. I wouldn’t risk it.

She snapped the collar around the synth’s neck, and then turned to Nora, taking a deep breath and looking her over once more. Dear God, why was she in a vault suit? She could have worn anything, armor, but she just had a vault suit and some leather and metal padding. Either she was new to this wasteland (good, less radioactive taint), or she was stupid. Probably new. Birch considered that maybe the tight-fitting suit on the living artifact of the Old World with the very well-sculpted body wasn’t such a bad thing. She tried to ignore these sorts of thoughts. 


	2. In Which Birch Is Convinced to Test Out the Mind Control Serum, Part 1

Week two, day five of her time as the Overboss of Nuka-Town. Possibly the rest of Nuka World, if she could find a way to clear out those locations, though the advance scouts to Galaxy-Land (That was its name, right?) reported terrifying robots, advance scouts to Dry Rock Gulch were found as dead vessels for mutant bloodworm hatchlings, and advance scouts to the Kiddie Kingdom actually survived and reported that despite the ghoul infestation, it was ruled by a melodramatic magician ghoul who seemed sane. She’d purge the fuck out of the Kiddie Kingdom, she decided. As for the Safari Zone and Refreshment World (Probably the right names) she didn’t get any scouts back. She assumed they deserted.

She called them “advance scouts” and not “raiders chosen because they insulted the new Overboss, or even just casually referred to her as a raider”, because she was a soldier and by God, if she was going to get something out of this ridiculous situation, it would be professionalism. Yep, that was her. Sergeant Elizabeth Stephanie Professionalism Birch. The most professional of not-raider raider boss former Enclave troopers. 

She reflected on this need for professionalism, because right now she was completely naked in front of the broken mirror in the back of the Parlor, where Mags, Will, and Mistress slept. The area was lit only by the backlight of a radio dial and a few lanterns scattered around the area, and the old wood was far less nice than one would expect from the supposedly-civilized Operators (Hah, as if anyone that rad-tainted could be called “civilized”). 

Shit, how did this even happen?

_ A few hours previously, the power-armor clad Sergeant Birch, bearer of a meaningless rank and a power armor suit at thirty-percent power, stood inside the Parlor, by Lizzie Wyath’s chemistry set and wave upon wave of ancient kitchen appliances in varying shades of angel blue and rust. “What do you want?” Birch looked down at Lizzie, who happened to be leaning against a refrigerator.  _

_ “To get the stick out of your ass.” _

_ “Are you going to suggest drugs? I put too much effort into keeping myself able to punch someone to death to just throw that away with whatever you’re planning to offer me. Besides, you’re not even a gang boss. You’re just a friend of a gang boss.” _

_ “I could be your mistress.” Lizzie responded, smirking. “There has to be something to you underneath the misanthropy and jingoism. Also, you’ll end up a psycho fiend eventually, so I’m not even going to try and hook you now.” _

_ “What makes you think I’m into that kind of perverted crap?” _

_ “Psycho or being told what to do while naked?” _

_ “The naked shit.” _

_ “...Lucky guess.” _

_ “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” _

_ “You talk in your sleep. Nick Valentine told me all about it. Apparently you’re kinky enough to make the robot blush.” _

_ “...That traitorous....No. No. I’m perfectly normal. Not perverted in the slightest.” _

_ “Instead of killing your first challenger, you put a collar around her, you mutter in your sleep about riding crops and the chain of command, and we all know what you get up to with the vault dweller.” _

_ “...I hate you, Wyath.” _

_ “You hate everyone. It’s pretty meaningless now. So, I’ll give you a suggestion. One that you’ll probably be okay with, because you have a fucked-up psyche. Seriously. Your childhood must have been a mess. I’ve been working on this formula, which can be deployed under very specific circumstances as a gas, or, much more effectively, as an injection, specifically that of a mind control serum. I put you under, command you to be able to refuse anything that you really want to refuse, let you go along with the rest, and you get to just relax and not feel all of those sick feelings of guilt that you probably feel when you play with yourself.” _

_ “That seems oddly safe and empathetic for a raider.” _

_ “I’m a brilliant but easily damaged scientist and you’re a rage-filled bitch with military training. Oh, and you’re also the Overboss, and if you suddenly started acting funny, everyone knows who the one making the mind control juice is. Civil war. It’s why I haven’t gone and, say, spiked the drinks of any other bosses with it. It’s hard to make it impossible for others to tell, and the Disciples and Pack might be stupid, but they’re not that stupid. _

_ Birch thought about this for a second, before sighing. “How long did you think this through, and are you putting this forward because you thought I’d be the easiest to convince for a “Lizzie Wyath Fucks With Someone” test?” _

_ “You’re not drug-addled or anything, and I mean, goddamn. Think about it. The Overboss. It was a target I had to shoot for.” _

So now she was naked, slightly cold, and on the wood floor, with Mistress standing above her. Shorn of the usual messy clothes or massive, hulking suit of Enclave-issued armor, she actually felt very small. Rightfully so, she reminded herself. This was Mistress, who, despite wearing the metal armor of an Operator, stood above Liz in a show of her obvious superiority, looking down upon Liz. Mistress spoke first, a hand on Liz’s head. “Close your eyes. I’m going to strip so I can move freely. That’s not a command.” She stood in front of Liz, as if daring her to watch, and the young scientist proceeded to slide out of each piece of armor, the chestplate, the armguards, the armored skirt, and the undershirt and pants, which were made from pre-war thermal wear, Liz faintly recalled, before the cloudy, tingling feeling that seemed to fill most of her brain took over and she stopped caring.

First, Mistress’ skirt hit the ground with a thud, the thin metal plating meant to stop melee attacks causing the thing to fold on itself and clatter. Next were the lumps of forged metal that made up the armguards, which were neatly put on top of the skirt in a sort of pile. As Mistress bent over to place the armguards with the skirt, Liz admired her Mistress’ surprisingly well-formed figure and, most prominently, her butt. It was small and understated, but it was there, and nonetheless, Liz was happy to watch, even hoping that her Mistress’ need for orderliness might compel her to stay bent over for a little while longer.

Sadly, however, it seemed that this would not be the case, and Mistress briefly looked at the empty vial on the counter, a reusable stimulation delivery package syringe made of metal and glass. To Liz, it was, in full, a heavily modified Lee Rapid Pharmaceuticals stimulation delivery package syringe, which a suppressed part of her found ramshackle and a bit ugly. To Mistress, it was just an empty stimpak. 

At any rate, Mistress reached up, outside of Liz’s field of vision, and Liz didn’t really see a need to watch. Probably best to look down. Her heart began to beat quicker as she heard Mistress pick something up from a shelf in the kitchen, though she honestly wasn’t sure what it was, and she didn’t really want to look. Whatever Mistress Wyath wanted would be fine, she thought. This hazy state her mind was in was surprisingly comfortable. She almost wished she could be like this all of the time.

Scratch that. She outright did.

Her musing was interrupted by the sound of a pool cue slamming into her back, and Mistress speaking in that matter-of-fact voice. “You’ve been a pain in the ass, Liz. Your arrogance, your inability to see beyond your own nose... I’m a scientist, you know. I figure out the truth about the world. Everything you take advantage of, your power armor, your laser rifle. All the work of scientists. If I were born with what the world gave you, instead of in some shitty town in the middle of a baseball diamond, I’d own your ass. Wait. Now I do.” She laughed a bit and hit Liz again, who had barely recovered from the first strike. Liz yelled out in pain. “You haven’t broken out of the mind control, though. Even though I set it...Holy shit. Now I’m tempted to just collar you. See what I can get for you on the slave market.”

“Try it, Wyath.” Birch’s normal tone reappeared as she started to stand up, though Lizzie Wyath just shrugged. “Well, I had to try. If you were in my position, you’d probably do the same thing. Or just shoot me. I can never tell with you. You’re sort of like that. Why don’t you just let Mistress get a few more hits in? Better yet...” Mistress drew a modified vault security baton covered in complex wiring, with a large button on the grip. “You’re into vault crap, right? This is a shock baton. I got it in hopes of disassembling it to use the circuitry. Never got around to it.” She put it in Liz’s hands and held her own hands behind her back. “Shock yourself five times over the stomach. One second per shock. I’ll count. One.”

It just made so much sense. She didn’t know why it made sense, the fact that she had to shock herself was just one of those unquestionable truths. Like the fact that the sun shone, or that radiation storms were inexplicably limited to the New England area (God knew there weren’t any in Ohio, before those cultish freaks in power armor-) Something with her thoughts politely but forcefully told her to stop thinking and just accept what Mistress wanted. She pushed the button on the hilt of the stun baton. The crackling sound of electricity was suddenly very, very audible, but it didn’t dissuade Liz from moving to tap the skin over her stomach with the baton, feeling briefly extremely vulnerable, shorn of any kind of power or armor, her literal and metaphorical hardened exterior taken away almost completely. She stopped musing as soon as the metal hit her skin, and her thoughts were replaced with the sensation of instant pain zapping her.

“Two.”

She mechanically tapped her stomach, which was already in pain due to the shock (Thankfully, the weapon seemed modified to be of lower power than usual), and she only made the pain so much worse as her tortured body, weakened by the first strike, convulsed, the pain from the first zap melding into the second one.

“Put the stun baton down, Liz. I’ll use the other three later.” Mistress said, with a dispassionate gaze, her interest in Liz’s masochistic matters imperfectly disguised, though the slight sneer on her face did as good a job as anything at that goal. “If you’re going to kneel there on the ground, at least do something useful. Did they let you fuck in the Enclave?”

“Sort of, Mistress. We had arranged dates when we’d donate biological material to be cloned into wombs or used for insemination, and state-arranged pregnancies were somewhat common. We didn’t have relationships, really, but we had-”

“Dammit. Did they let you fuck?” She bent down to pick up the baton and jabbed the stun baton into Liz’s shoulder, who shuddered in pain, gritting her teeth.

“Casual sex was mostly to celebrate victories against scu- raiders and tribals. Relationships counted as fraternization, and at that point COs usually didn’t look past it. I cheated and dated my CO. I guess I was good enough that she didn’t report me.”

“You’re such a boring person. Show me why you weren’t executed by firing squad or whatever.”

  
“Of course, Mistress!”


End file.
